


Sneak Thief

by RueRambunctious



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Mirror Sex, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Nathaniel makes a living out of not being seen.When he finds himself at the mercy of Moriarty, the man ensures Nathaniel sees himself in a way that is both frightening and liberating.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Sneak Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This was a requested piece for Nathaniel / ClariceStarlingLector a million years ago. I could never get the drafts to be dub-con enough to match the prompt, so I put it aside for far too long. It's still quite light, but I figured it was about time this little fic saw the light of day.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Well.

That was unexpected.

Nathaniel leans against a wall a few blocks away from the building he has just burgled and allows his legs to finally buckle, his heart hammering frighteningly hard in his chest.

He did it. He got away with it.

His spoils jab into his chest under his jacket. He can hardly believe his luck (or was it skill? Perhaps he has more skill than he realises…) 

He rather thought his employer had sent him on a suicide mission, but perhaps not. Nathaniel feels giddy, and has to bite down on his hand to stifle the rising hysterics.

He's alive. _He's alive he's alive he's..._

...Still got to deliver this damned thing. Urgh.

Nathaniel tries to calm himself, then makes his way through the barely familiar English streets.

Normally delivering his acquired treasures is not particularly difficult, but of course this night would be different. Nathaniel's mettle is to be tested in more ways than is truly fair.

One of the Moran brothers is waiting when the young American man melts into the usual building.

Nathaniel feels ice in his stomach. He's never actually met the blond before, but he knows the Morans are far above his own lucrative paygrade, so it cannot be a good thing for one to be here.

The Moran brothers are both enormous, and this one takes up space in a way that exudes deadly power... but _that_ doesn't scare Nathaniel much. The thing that puts terror down Nathaniel's spine is that the massive man is evidently waiting for _him_.

It's hardly fair. Nathaniel managed to actually survive the suicide mission of a theft after all.

Or at least, he thought he had.

Moran grunts and gestures towards a staircase. Nathaniel considers simply turning and running, but he knows the blond monster would be on him in seconds. For an utterly mad moment Nathaniel considers winding Moran with a kick and attempting to flee the building.

The much larger man fixes Nathaniel with an intelligent look. As though reading the American's very thoughts, Moran tightens his eyes ever so slightly in clear threat.

Nathaniel swallows and nods reluctantly. He forces himself to try to comply with the earlier command, but his legs seem weak and frozen to the spot.

Moran shifts his weight as though to approach.

Nathaniel's legs instantly understand it is better to comply than require persuasion from the hulking brute; they uproot themselves from the floor and he scampers obediently towards the stairs, fear rattling down each nub of his spine.

Moran follows. He is a looming presence at Nathaniel's back but the bigger man's tread is just as silent as the American's. It's disconcerting. Nathaniel does not want to turn around to see how close the intimidating blond is to him, but by the sound of Moran's breathing he's pretty damned close.

Breath on his neck makes the short man jump. Apparently those longer legs have made it rather easy to catch up. Nathaniel forces out a slow breath and stares at the ceiling as he wonders whether to acknowledge that Moran has dipped his head so, so close.

“Third door on the left,” Moran drawls.

Nathaniel nods jerkily, feeling painfully anxious and realising that his legs have frozen again.

Moran pushes the American squarely between the shoulder blades, knocking Nathaniel forwards. The smaller man is uncertain whether to be grateful for the help or to focus solely on screaming internally in horror of what may be to come.

Nathaniel walks on, feeling chilled and sick and actually really noticing the grain of the wood in the door before him. A bristle from the paintbrush used to varnish the thing is stuck almost at Nathaniel's eye level. There are smeared fingerprints on the dully gleaming door handle.

Moran shoves the smaller man's shoulder and grunts impatiently. Nathaniel reaches out for the handle, feeling a little dizzy as his hand curls around the cold metal.

Opening the door seems like the loudest noise Nathaniel has ever heard. He cannot even focus on the contents of the room at first, his pulse pounding so insistently in his ears the little man can almost see it. The light source flickers – firelight.

Moran shoves him again; a controlled movement that makes Nathaniel wonder at its gentleness. And then he remembers: no one's taken the spoils from him yet. The American tightens his arms around his chest protectively.

Movement within the room makes Nathaniel raise his head sharply.

Oh fuck.

The American freezes yet again, but this time he has to really concentrate on not wetting himself. The other Moran brother is standing alertly within the room and he's even more intimidating than the first: deep scarring runs across the huge man's nose and along the side of one eye. The man's eyes are the coldest blue Nathaniel's ever seen, and they burn vividly from all the way across the room.

That's not even the worst of it. There's a short man in a tailored suit reclining stiffly on an enormous button-backed Chesterfield sofa. The large piece of furniture should have made the suited man seem even smaller, but instead the man seems to carry a presence which fills the entire room.

Nathaniel swallows weakly. He has never before seen, or even heard description of, his employer M. Certainly a tiny dark-haired man in his thirties was never how Nathaniel had pictured the criminal.

However, the way both Morans look to the suited man with the air of Rottweiler dogs trained using cruelty leaves no doubt in the American's mind.

M smiles eerily at Nathaniel and spreads his palms out in an obliquely false welcome. “So glad you accepted my invitation.”

An Irish accent? Oh.

Nathaniel almost mutters back, 'I didn't have much choice in the matter,' but luckily his instincts change that insubordination to an anxious squeak instead.

The man on the couch raises an eyebrow. “I rather expected you to have some wit about you,” he comments, in a way that doesn't seem quite like a rebuke, but isn't _not_ a threat either. “It is not _everyone_ who could have done what you did today.”

There's something like a compliment in there despite the simmer of predatory delight in M's sing-song voice and it ignites a worryingly warm ember in Nathaniel's chest even as the American's stomach tightens further. Nathaniel swallows and with weak hands reaches for his jacket's zipper. “Do… you want..?”

M's lips curl cruelly and it sends such a shiver through Nathaniel that the thief almost drops the prize beneath his clothing. “Oh darling, do you think I would send you on such a fool's errand if I did not want what you bear?”

Nathaniel feels an odd spark which ripples over his shoulders and races to his already clenched stomach. He fumbles with the zip in his quaking fingers and exposes the sought after treasure.

M's lips spread into another smile that makes the American deeply uneasy. The grinning consulting criminal stands gracefully and strides towards Nathaniel.

The small American stands stiffly in naked terror as the other (barely taller) brunet reaches close and snatches the item calmly from Nathaniel's grip.

M examines it closely. Nathaniel's pulse hammers in his ears as he watches with held breath. The scrutiny takes such a long time and the American starts to feel woozy. Is it right? Could he somehow have been duped? Failed M?

M's eyes narrow and he tosses the damned thing over his shoulder, not looking around as it smashes loudly.

Nathaniel cannot help but exclaim in horror.

M arches a dark brow again. “What? Do you think me so shallow as to care overly for such a trinket?”

Nathaniel does not know what to say. His mouth feels dry; his heart is hammering and the Moran brothers look on as though there is some sick amusement playing out before them.

M stalks towards the panicked, younger man. He stands closer to his employee than is remotely professional, and far nearer than he ever has before. Intimidating. Threatening. Making Nathaniel's legs shake in a way that isn't purely fear.

“Are you paying due attention, Nathaniel? I feel this is _quite_ important.”

Anxious of vexing the deadly man too much, Nathaniel feels his body physically recoil in fear. However…

'Urgh, don't think about that if you want to live,' he tells himself.

He tries instead to remain still, invisible, unprovocative. Yet it's terribly hard to remain stoic when he can feel M's breath on the side of his neck. What is it with these powerful men getting so close?

M smooths his suit as though not perfectly aware of how Nathaniel's heart is pounding. Death. This proximity can only mean agonising death. Right?

A hard slap rings out across the room and Nathaniel gasps in pain. It doesn't help his confused feelings one bit.

“I asked you a question,” M scolds. He grabs Nathaniel's sore cheek and massages it possessively. “Are you _trying_ to be impertinent?”

“N-No, sir,” Nathaniel whispers. Terrified, he tries not to lean into the horrifying touch.

M yanks harshly at the flesh, making Nathaniel cry out before clamping down on the noise. “Is that your answer to both?” M snarls. “No, you weren't paying attention, but no, you weren't trying to be impertinent? Seems rather like a contradiction, Nate...”

Nathaniel cringes. “I'm s-sorry...”

M grabs both of Nathaniel's hips and drags the young man towards him. Nathaniel's breath catches, and he screws up his face in effort as he tries not to make any indication of how he feels about having M press up against him thus.

“Have a guess why I had you fetch that for me,” M purrs.

Nathaniel swallows. A ridiculous part of him almost suggests there is something about _him_ his employer wants, but he knows that is madness. “There's… something inside it? That's worth more?” Nathaniel whispers.

M laughs and steps back. He makes amused eyes at his blond brutes and tilts his head at the one furthest from the door. “'Bastian, do you want to check?”

The scarred man grins and lopes over to the mess. Sebastian Moran makes a show of searching through the shards, then looks up with a dangerous grin that has the scar tissue around his eye crinkling. The tightness in Nathaniel's gut tells him already what the blond is going to say: “Nothing that I can see, Boss.”

“Oh dear,” M states with a roll of his eyes. He focuses the dark orbs on Nathaniel again. “Why else might I have summoned you?”

“It's… personal?” the little American croaks. He doesn't _know_.

“Ooh. Think you're special, do you?” M coos. His eyes glitter in a way that makes Nathaniel feel utterly trapped.

“N-No?” the American whimpers.

M tuts, resting an arm casually against the wall near Nathaniel's head. His invasion of personal space makes Nathaniel feel disorientated and M seems to feed off of that. “You're not talented at all?”

Nathaniel shakes his head, certain there is no correct answer, and waits for frightening repercussions.

“Oh, come now,” Mr Moriarty drawls, sounding terrifying and amused.

“What-”

M slaps him. Hard. Nathaniel doesn't presume to close his eyes at the pain or the shame but he also doesn't meet his employer's gaze.

M snatches Nathaniel's chin, forcing visual contact. “Don't you dare question me.”

“Sorry,” Nathaniel blurts.

M purses his lips in a way that makes the American's breath catch. “That's not what your eyes say.” M presses his thumb to Nathaniel's throat. “Nor your pulse.”

Nathaniel pushes his weight against the wall behind him, trying his best to hold back the heat rushing to his face. He does not want to consider the consequences of leaning into that bewildering touch.

M hums then closes the distance between them again. Nathaniel feels the wall against his back and M's cologne in his nose and then the Irishman runs his other hand up the American's inside leg. Nathaniel jumps, gasping, at the touch, but M tightens the grip on the smaller man's throat, keeping Nathaniel pinned.

“In-ter-esting...” M murmurs.

He steps away abruptly. Nathaniel stumbles forward a little then takes a deep, shuddering breath. He watches M through confused, alarmed eyes.

M smooths down his suit. He watches the American breathe for a few moments then jerks his head sharply towards the Moran brothers and says, “These two spend rather a lot of time in my company. Breeds a certain amount of familiarity. I punish that of course; don't I, Sebastian?”

The scarred blond looks up in mild surprise, gives a vaguely sour look, and nods.

“'Bastian?” M repeats sternly.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Moriarty, sir,” the huge blond grumbles, dropping his gaze from M before raising it threateningly and mildly resentfully to Nathaniel. The American quails inwardly; he does not follow what is happening but he is certain the petulant twist of Sebastian Moran's pout cannot mean good things.

Not that Nathaniel's body appreciates this.

“Do you know what he said to me, Nate?” Mr Moriarty asks mockingly, knocking the smaller man from his thoughts.

Nathaniel chokes. “N-No?”

“'Bastian, what did you call me?” M asks, feigning innocence.

The much larger man presses his lips together like a well-chastised little boy. “'Vain',” Sebastian admits.

Moriarty tuts. “Can you imagine it?” he asks Nathaniel. “ _Me_ , vain.”

The American has no idea what to say.

M smirks and carries on as though indifferent to Nathaniel's opinion. “Sev, get that, will you?”

Nathaniel watches as the other blond finally steps away from the door. Severin Moran saunters towards a large cloth and yanks it down to display an enormous, ornate mirror even bigger than he is.

Nathaniel doesn't even think about trying to run when the escape route is freed. He's too intrigued by the way Mr Moriarty smiles at their reflections.

M removes his suit jacket and folds it over the arm of the Chesterfield. He rolls up his sleeves with some sort of wickedness playing about his amused mouth. “He's not entirely wrong, is my 'Bastian,” the criminal says of the blond.

The scarred Moran snorts. “Oh, now you say it; after you striped me.”

Moriarty flicks up his gaze with dark amusement. There's an odd warmth there that makes Nathaniel feel he's witnessed something deadly… a perverse secret that will get him killed. 

M licks his lips tauntingly. “Naughty boys get punished, Bash.”

The big blond merely glowers. Nathaniel cannot imagine how one would punish such a man, or how such a terrifying brute would allow it, but M is the Shadow King after all; the boogeyman incarnate.

Mr Moriarty snaps his fingers in Nathaniel's direction. “Now, as I was saying...”

Disorientated, the American's mouth feels dry. He doesn't expect the hand which curls in his open jacket or guides him firmly towards the mirror.

“I pride myself on excellence,” M states, breathing into Nathaniel's exposed neck again. “And I'm rather taken with myself. I'm certain you can understand. Who wouldn't be?”

Nathaniel shivers and tries not to look around. Warily, he stares at their images reflected in the mirror. The American expects to look grey; frightened. 

But he doesn't.

He looks flushed and… obvious. The American's collarbone judders in humiliation.

Moriarty does not seem to mind. “Shall I give you an easy one, Nate?” He ghosts his fingers tauntingly over Nathaniel's body. “Guess my type.”

Nathaniel keeps his gaze fixed firmly on their reflections. “Pale,” the American whispers thinly. His mouth feels dry and his tongue far too big for it. “Dark-haired. Sm- ...Sli- ...Wiry?”

M chuckles. “I know that we are petite, pet.”

The American breathes a temporary sigh of relief. “O-oh. Good.”

Mr Moriarty reaches around to press his palm flat against Nathaniel's chest. He pulls the American sharply against his own torso. “I do hope you're not inclined to overuse that word, Nate.”

Nathaniel squeaks, then feels stupid for doing so. He sees the brothers exchange glances in the mirror, but then he accidentally meets M's gaze. It startles him more than the touch does.

Moriarty's lips curl and his hand toys with the fabric under his hands, bunching the layered teeshirts. Nathaniel purses his lips, a buzz of fear rising through himself, but M seems completely in control of the situation as his fingers glide over what is beneath. Nathaniel gasps and bites down on his lower lip, staring down at his employer's roaming touch.

M makes a chiding noise and uses his free hand to force Nathaniel's chin back up. “You're going to watch us.” The Irishman winks. “Or I'll kill you...”

The consulting criminal licks Nathaniel's ear after he makes the threat, so it's difficult to know whether it is in jest, but Nathaniel takes no chances. He obeys, and shivers as Mr Moriarty toys with his body.

The mirror betrays secrets the small American wishes it wouldn't.

“Was-Wasn't exactly in the… job description,” Nathaniel says breathily.

M chuckles in abrupt surprise. “Perk of the job,” he drawls, but doesn't pause. He continues reaching for Nathaniel's fly and shoves the jeans down.

The American hisses nervously, but the purposeful slide of M's hands does not falter. The terrifying Irishman grips and squeezes Nathaniel's arse in a way that feels both startling and exciting.

“Well?” Moriarty purrs.

Nathaniel looks around quickly, but Mr Moriarty pushes his skull back towards the mirror. “'Well' what?” the American asks, bewildered and uneasy for all of the _wrong_ reasons.

M rubs his hand between Nathaniel's legs; the American cannot help but buck into the contact. The reflection in the mirror is obscene and Nathaniel has never seen such a sight. “ _Well_ ,” M says, “you had best get to begging, for the sake of my ego.”

Nathaniel bites his lip. He's certain it's not his _virtue_ that pushes him to ask, “Who-Who says I want to?”

Surprisingly – perhaps disappointingly – Moriarty merely tugs at Nathaniel's damn boxers. “Oh please; don't tell me that you don't want this,” the consulting criminal sneers.

Nathaniel sighs, because it would be easier if he had no choice at all. The little American meets predatory, patient M's gaze in the mirror, and feels decidedly, dizzyingly brave as he reaches behind himself to free Mr Moriarty from his own, far more expensive, clothing.

M smirks then, like he's won. “Good boy.”

His hand is in Nathaniel's underwear as he says it, squeezing and stroking the hot skin. Nathaniel lets out a shaky noise that might have been a groan. He doesn't normally like being touched there, but something's different this time. Maybe it's all the adrenaline, the possibility of death, or just the intoxicating way M smells.

The touch is good. Better than good.

Nathaniel's not certain that he wants to watch, has always been a little uncomfortable with his body and mirrors, would rather turn around to admire the warm length pressing into him.

But he does look, and he frowns in surprise. The way Moriarty is handling him… the way he twists and teasingly grips the folds of Nathaniel's skin… it looks like… It kind of looks like…

Nathaniel raises his surprised, heated gaze to M and gives a small nod of sincere approval. He cannot help but watch M's bizarrely clever hand.

“You're alright, boy,” Mr Moriarty breathes, his lips at Nathaniel's ear where they cannot be read. There's not a _huge_ difference in age between them, and Nathaniel understands: _boy, boy, boy..._

M startles the little American with a spank, but Nathaniel decides to be honest and doesn't stifle the pleased noise that bursts from his chest.

“I thought so,” Moriarty purrs. His teeth graze Nathaniel's throat; he has a hand on the American's ass and another tugging his sex. Nathaniel's heart hasn't stopped hammering but he thinks he could happily stay here for quite some time.

Nate remembers he is being watched by the Moran brothers. Nathaniel looks up into the mirror anxiously, but there is no judgement in the blonds' expressions. Severin Moran seems nonchalant; Sebastian's emotions seem more complex – there's a little frown on his brow, but his eyes look blown even from here and-

M spanks Nathaniel again: _hard_. “Did I tell you to make eyes at Basher over there, or did I tell you to focus on _this_?” He pinches Nathaniel in his grip making the smaller man cry out.

Sebastian grins from the mirror. Part of the American thinks he should be worried about more than that, but he's not. He melts into M's rough, possessive touch.

“Should-Shouldn't I touch you back?” Nathaniel asks.

M does not immediately pull away from the American's neck. With a sigh and another spank, Mr Moriarty states, “Are you complaining about how I want to do things? Because I could gag you and have my boys hold you down if you'd prefer.”

Nathaniel shivers, and tells himself it's from fear. The man with his hand down Nate's -indecently lowered- pants isn't fooled, his fingers already too damp for that, and snickers softly at the American's expression. “I wasn't offering a reward...”

“Do I judge your perversions?” Nathaniel snaps softly, then freezes. M chuckles and tilts his head, slapping the back of Nathaniel's pale thighs until they are a hot, dark pink while Sebastian watches intently. Nate's sore legs throb almost as insistently as another red part of him and he cannot pretend to regret his words even in such deadly company.

Nathaniel is only a thief; he's good at sinking into the shadows. This? This is horribly, maddeningly, like being _seen_ , and by the Shadow King and his men no less.

“You do know who you're talking to, right?” Moriarty asks the chastised American in a thoroughly amused and entirely terrifying Irish lilt.

“Yes,” Nathaniel hisses. He's more aroused than ever, terrifyingly. He feels drunk on his own fear and wonders how it's possible to have both goosebumps and sweat breaking out at once, but then M is dipping to his knees and licking a broad swipe along Nathaniel's spanked skin.

Fuck. Nathaniel can barely keep his footing because of the unexpected, soothing, teasing touch. Mr Moriarty's cool, tickling _breath_ is on his _skin_.

M bites Nathaniel's thigh firmly. “How do you want it?” the Irishman asks in a low, dark growl.

Nathaniel shivers. The ache of his bitten, spanked thigh is nothing compared to the screaming _need_ of his nethers. With a ragged voice Nate answers, “Y-You're the boss...”

“Of course I am; now live a little,” Moriarty drawls near Nathaniel's hot, sore cheeks. “Tell me what you like, or I'll have to guess...”

Nathaniel whimpers. He can feel his overexcitement dripping onto his furred thighs. “I… I don't know..?”

M rolls his eyes in the mirror and stands smoothly despite his suit trousers being lowered to his mid-thighs. Nathaniel flinches, but Moriarty merely circles him and drops back down in front.

On. His fucking. Knees.

M smirks. “What? I want to taste you. See if you taste like you look.”

Nathaniel whimpers. He almost pulls away out of habit, but he notices their reflection again. They appear to…

“Yeah, okay,” Nate whispers.

Mr Moriarty smirks up at him approvingly and lightly bites the American's inner thigh. “Good boy.”

Fuck. The words seem to send a squirmy, disconcerting heat down past Nathaniel's belly button.

Moriarty adjusts the American's underwear a little, his forehead brushing Nate's stomach softly. M's dark hair blocks the view, but the touch grounds Nathaniel in the oddest way.

“Can… Can I touch you?” the American asks hesitantly. Surreal situation or not, he knows M could take his hand off for such a presumptive act.

M glances up, deadly fingers curled around Nathaniel's waistband. “Of course,” he says smoothly, as if he's not the creature grown folks' nightmares are made of. The Irishman's expression grows stern, yet not murdrous. He warns, “But if you pull my hair I'll let you feel my belt.”

Nathaniel chuckles softly, too fear/lust-drunk to hold his tongue. “You think that's a deterrent?”

M pauses, grins, and shakes his head. His smile looks like something you might imagine under your bed before you snatch your bare ankle from the floor. The Irishman's breath is on some of Nate's most intimate skin as he lilts, “Fool. Let me suck you already.”

Nathaniel swallows and nods. There's a peculiar care to the way Mr Moriarty chooses his words that's oddly reassuring. M knows everyone's secrets and he holds all of their strings, isn't that the whisper?

And fuck, M does suck. His mouth is wet and warm and cleverer than Nathaniel had ever given the consulting criminal credit for, and all M is really known for is genius and terror. Moriarty's fingers glide back around and settle on Nate's bottom, squeezing with a possessiveness that belies M's position on the floor.

Nathaniel squirms, his gaze flicking between M's rocking head and their reflection. The young brunet glances at the Morans looking for some reason not to give into the sensations, but there's no real threat in their expressions right now.

Fuck it.

The American bucks up desperately into M's mouth, groaning at the other man's use of such a clever, clever tongue.

“This how you kill people?” Nathaniel mutters. “Death by impending orgasm?”

Mr Moriarty twists to bite the American's hip and smirks when Nate groans pornographically in response. “Death by delayed orgasm, darling.”

Nate snorts, feeling breathless and high on endorphins and pain and fear and the wetness near M's lips and down the Irishman's chin. Nate quivers and retorts, “Don't you dare. Um. I mean...”

M merely cackles, his breath hot over Nathaniel's sensitive skin. “Shh. Don't make me kill you _horribly_ just when we're starting to have fun...”

Nathaniel bites his lip and nods feverishly. M squeezes his cheeks approvingly, and the American wonders how he could be so lucky to achieve this touch. Surely this is not how M and the Moran brothers usually torture a thief to death...

Mr Moriarty keeps rocking possessively into those licks and eager sucks of his and Nathaniel has to swing his hands over M's shoulders to stay upright. The shirt feels expensive, expectedly so, but the heat under the American's fingers almost seems surprising. A real human, not a whisper on the air.

“Want to know a secret, pet?” M whispers hotly against Nate's fevered privates.

The American whines. “What, sir?”

He feels M grin against his skin, wickedly, then kiss his body teasingly. The Irishman confides, “Sebastian tells me I look rather splendid with something inside of me...”

Nathaniel blinks, frowns, and tries to grasp the older man's meaning. M has taken the hand that was gripping Nate's arsecheek hard enough to bruise and shoves elegant fingers under his tongue, wetting them. Nathaniel thinks that he's leaking enough that M shouldn't need spit, but the sight of Mr Moriarty sucking on his fingers with intent is almost overwhelmingly good.

“Oh God, please...” Nate whines.

M flashes his teeth in a terrifying sort of smile and withdraws his hands. Seconds later he is pushing up and _inside_ , and oh _fuck_ it's been such a long time since Nate let anyone do that…

Nathaniel takes a hand from M's shoulders and wraps his teeth around his knuckles to try to bite back the loud noises of _need_ and _want_ pouring out of himself.

M bites him abruptly, and Nate almost screams. 

Moriarty tisks at him. “Don't hide. I want to see and hear every _second_ of this.”

Nathaniel doesn't quite sob. He releases his hand, a painful white ring of deep teethmarks present on it, and wipes it awkwardly on himself before replacing it gingerly on M's shoulder. “You're killing me, M...”

The Irishman snickers. “I'm torturing you for feeding my ego, boy, and you're loving every second of it...”

M's fingers reach up and push something deep inside of Nate and the American is _screaming_...

Nathaniel's orgasm almost surprises him, and he digs his fingers into M's shoulder blades fiercely. Moriarty merely chuckles and keeps the smaller man upright as Nate spasms uncontrollably.

“More?” M asks, breath a tickle against Nathaniel's stomach. His chin is wet and he tugs on the American's damp pubic hair teasingly.

Nathaniel shakes his head. It feels empty, and his legs feel ready to give out. “Your… your turn. Just give me a minute...”

M smirks and wipes his face, then stands to kiss the American fiercely. His stubble is slick but Nathaniel is too surprised and aroused by the sudden press of _Moriarty's_ lips to his own to care. The oddly intoxicating criminal is ravaging his mouth and rubbing firm circles in Nate's rump.

“Do… Do you have a condom?” Nathaniel blurts. After a moment he wonders if it's a stupid question, it's not like M can get him pregnant, so he basically just said, 'Hey M, I think you might have an STI,' which is so far from being sexy, but he only meant…

Mr Moriarty pulls back and snaps his fingers at Severin, who produces a foil wrapper without any fuss. Nathaniel feels a sense of relief, then embarrassment, which quickly tangles with a rise of nerves and excitement. He's never done anything like this with an audience before, and maybe he never will again. M is a killer. The Morans are killers.

Maybe they'll fuck him to death.

The sensation of confused, terrified, aroused _desperation_ grows as Moriarty pulls Nathaniel's clothing to the side to better kiss his neck. “How do you want it?”

A doomed man's last request? Nathaniel takes the square with slightly trembling fingers. “Get on the couch. Please.”

M does so, shoving his clothing to his ankles impatiently and elegantly holding out his hands to the American. One hand is so liberally wet with Nate's pleasure that the fingers have wrinkled. Nathaniel goes to M, more incapable than ever of running away, and straddles the Irishman's pale, hot thighs gingerly. Nathaniel's own thighs are tender, and covered in M's pink handprints, not that he'd noticed that in the mirror.

“You're sure?” Moriarty ascertains.

Nathaniel blinks. It sends the most confused thrills of heat through him that this deadly monster wants to ascertain his consent. Is this a game? Or is M truly a vampire, one who needs permission to enter?

M bites a line down Nathaniel's arm whilst the younger man deliberates, before stopping to suck the American's pale inner wrist. “How do you want this? Do you want lube or..?”

Nathaniel shakes his head, feeling daring and bewildered. He's really going to do this. He's going to fuck M. Well. He's not _that_ brave. He's going to let M fuck _him_.

“I'm slick enough,” the American mumbles. He fidgets with the foil wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth and rushing to put it on the other man.

“I'm glad you're eager but calm down,” Mr Moriarty murmurs, squeezing Nathaniel's wrist.

Even more perplexed but feeling brave, Nathaniel leans forward to press a quick kiss onto M's cheek.

Blinking awkwardly in surprise, M stares at the American for a moment. Nate freezes; was that wrong..?

“Breathe,” Moriarty commands.

Nathaniel nods, holding the other man's gaze as he does so. His heart is pounding hard. He could die of heart failure any moment he is certain.

“Are you sure?” M asks seriously. His short nails graze Nate's skin as though whispering a warning that he does not intend to be gentle.

Nathaniel bites his lip and hooks a hand around the back of M's warm neck. The short, dark hair ripples under his fingers where it is not restrained by hair product. M makes a face like he has stabbed people for lesser infractions than touching his scalp. He likely has. Nate is dripping again.

Taking another deep breath, Nathaniel rolls down the condom and moves closer.

Moriarty snatches his hips. “Easy, easy, easy; you haven't done this in forever.”

The American gives him a startled look, trying not to examine why being held thus by a notorious criminal makes him feel exquisitely safe. “How would you know?”

“I know everything that goes on in London,” M responds with a roll of his eyes. “And I pay close attention to the people I pay money to. Especially the short ones with pale skin and dark hair who have recently had a name change.”

Nathaniel curls his lip. He doesn't especially like being called short either, but his stomach is clenching at the thought of M _watching_ him. Nate mumbles, “I don't want a bonus for this.”

M chuckles. His hands feel like supernatural entities on Nathaniel's skin. “I am your bonus. You're a good little thief, and a pretty little fucktoy.”

Nate tries not to look at the mirror then, but he does catch the way the Moran brothers exchange a fleeting smirk between themselves behind Mr Moriarty's head. M's lips press together in warning anyway, and Nathaniel feels fresh chills.

“In that case...” the American bravely tries to rock his pelvis. He's uncertain why he is trying to entice an irked Shadow King's attention back upon himself.

Moriarty concedes as though granting some great _favour_ to be permitted to bounce on his lap and turns his focus back to Nate as he lets Nathaniel lower himself down. The consulting criminal gasps appreciatively as the nervous thief guides him in and slides down slowly but the sound sounds eerily dangerous, as though M is even more of a predatory presence when in an intimate position. The way the man's fingers are pressing down harshly on Nate's hips, the American can believe it.

“I see thievery is not your only talent,” M teases. His gaze is startlingly open and playful, as though being flanked by two towering bodyguards whilst being half buried in a relative stranger is nothing at all.

Nathaniel laughs: the noise is low and slightly faltering. He's a little incredulous that he's here, at this moment, with _M_ , doing… this. Maybe he's hysterical; frightened for his life. Maybe he's drunk on it.

He does not usually drop his pants at such little notice.

Mr Moriarty bites a line down the American's chest. “Less introspection right now, Nathaniel.”

“Trying,” Nate mutters.

M smacks the smaller man, lighter than before, but enough to make Nathaniel yelp. “Focus.”

Nathaniel gives the man a mild glare that makes Moriarty's dark eyes glitter and wraps a hand in M's tie. He is adjusting to the sensation of M being inside him, but he's uncertain why the Irishman hasn't moved yet.

Moriarty grins. “Cute little thing, aren't you?”

The small American blinks.

M merely chortles at his expression and nips a soft line into Nathaniel's neck. “You disagree?”

Nate rocks his pelvis tentatively, grinning as M's breath catches. “You said you're your own type so...”

Mr Moriarty laughs uproariously and gives Nathaniel's bottom a slap that takes the American's breath away. “ _Brat_.”

Nathaniel cannot help but giggle warmly. He feels M's shaking right through him. “Ouch,” he murmurs. Nate slides down a little lower and asks huskily, “Can I have another?”

M bites the American's shoulder through the layered clothing and squeezes Nate's red cheek. “What's the magic word?”

Nathaniel hisses and rolls his hips. “Please?”

“Good boy,” M purrs, spanking Nathaniel hard over both cheeks and down the smaller man's thighs.

“Ow, ow! I only asked for one,” Nathaniel gasps, giggling as he jiggles in the other man's lap.

M's dark eyes sparkle. “I'm unpredictable, poppet.”

Nate grinds into him a little without thinking about it. “I'm noticing.”

Mr Moriarty drags manicured nails down the back of the American's scalp and neck. “Better than an ordinary day at the office, hmm?”

“I'm a thief; what office?” Nathaniel asks M's stubbled jawline.

M's teeth show. “If I let you away with backchat just because you are riding me so prettily the boys are going to get jealous, darling.”

“Sorry; I don't normally have an audience when I fuck the boss,” Nathaniel drawls, shifting closer teasingly.

M hisses and tugs Nathaniel's short hair. “Darling, are you saying I'm not special?”

Nathaniel giggles and clenches his thighs a little, enjoying how it makes M bare his teeth again. “If I say yes, could your ego take it?”

Moriarty delivers a flurry of painful slaps that have the American swiftly writhing and squirming on his lap. Nathaniel drops his arms over M's shoulders and crosses them. “D-Don't stop...”

“And to think; you were scared of me earlier,” M chortles, obliging with an enthusiasm which makes Nathaniel's skin glow.

“I'm not cocky; I still _am_ ,” Nate groans, voice hitching mid-slap.

M licks a hot, wet stripe up the column of throat he has been gnawing on, soothing the bite marks just a little. They're sore; going to leave real bruises.

“Clever boy,” Moriarty praises, not pausing the spanking.

Nathaniel trembles. There's a dark power within M that simmers beneath the painful but not brutal handling. It's intoxicating the way Mr Moriarty holds back his potential, giving just enough. He curls his words around Nathaniel perfectly, seducing the American with that confident lilt.

Nathaniel just about melts, arching into M's every touch willingly.

“I've been watching you...” the older man purrs.

Nathaniel blinks and tilts his head, running his fingers over M's scalp to show attention.

“When you've been working. You're quite a gem, you know,” M praises.

The American wonders how the other man can be so coherent as to hold conversation right now: Nathaniel himself is becoming quite disorientated by the amount of pleasure building within. Although judging from the sound of the Morans' breathing, those virile men don't just _guard_ M. It seems the mirror is not the only one getting a show.

The Irishman surprises Nathaniel by biting his lower lip. “What are you thinking about?”

Nathaniel's too overwhelmed not to filter the truth down to a simple 'you'. Mr Moriarty laughs uproariously at Nate's confession and holds the smaller brunet close. “Notice a lot from those shadows of yours, do you?” M says at last, his warm hands all over Nathaniel's back and hips.

The American curls into the touch, rocking forward and arching up. Through half-lidded eyes he catches Sebastian Moran's gaze and his throat flushes.

“Do you like them watching you?” M asks softly. “The twins?”

“Yes...” Nathaniel admits.

“You're a joy to watch,” Moriarty affirms. He slides his hands down to Nate's rear.

Nathaniel snickers. “I look a little like you...”

“Exactly,” M purrs, nipping Nate's earlobe. Nathaniel groans and rocks his head back.

Mr Moriarty spanks him again. “You look the picture of bliss, Nate.”

Nathaniel bites his lip and rises up on his thighs before sinking back down, making the other man gasp. “That… That's about right...”

“What were you thinking about when Severin brought you to me?” M asks.

Nathaniel whines in soft frustration. He's pretty sure he'd be reaching completion again soon if Moriarty would stop taunting him with questions. “I… I thought you were going to kill me or… or hurt me, I guess..?”

“Ah. Didn't imagine I'd use you like this? Make you feel like this?” M asks. Nathaniel shakes his head quickly, keening, and realises Mr Moriarty is starting to thrust up into him. M is speeding up, whilst trying to slow Nate down.

_Oh_.

Nathaniel leans down and suckles M's earlobe. The Irishman flinches in surprise but soon curls a hand around Nate's neck.

“I know what you're doing,” the American teases huskily.

M's gaze flicks up. “You do indeed, do you?”

Nate tugs playfully on his earlobe. “Mhmm. You gonna give me _more_ , Boss?”

M's breath hitches and he digs fingers into Nathaniel's sore bottom. “How much can you take?”

Nathaniel lowers himself fiercely into Moriarty's lap and clenches, smirking at the other man's reaction. Nate rises up again and increases the pace, fucking M hard. The Irishman pulls him closer still with every thrust, leaving patterns of aches that will bruise like purple fingerprints.

“Good _boy_ ,” M roars with an intensity that makes Nathaniel's insides coil. They fuck hard, M panting clever, clever praise, and soon Nate is seeing white, sweat and shivers and sparks rushing from his core to beyond his pores. M grips him close and thrusts up inside, teeth a grounding, possessive ring around the American's bruised throat.

Moriarty lets them sit for a moment afterwards, rubbing Nathaniel's back, then slowly lets go of the punished throat. “Nice work, brat.”

Nathaniel stirs. “Thank you for not killing me yet.”

M chuckles. “Talented boy like you? No. Not as long as you're good.”

The American smiles a little shyly and stretches out on the couch. He would like to be good for this terrifying man. Nathaniel would quite like to be naughty for him too.

Mr Moriarty looks around to Sebastian, who appears beside the Chesterfield to hand him a few wet wipes. The Moran's erection is at eye level but he makes no move to drag Nathaniel's fragile little body close. 

The Irishman looks over Nate with a possessive, smug expression. Nathaniel startles as M takes hold of him again cleans him up gently like some sort of trophy, except running the cool wipe over the worst of Nate's stinging cheeks first to soothe them feels like something else unsaid. 

M takes the last wipe and removes the condom calmly. Severin dumps it in the smouldering fireplace. DNA, Nate supposes. Severin Moran had not gazed at him as intently as Sebastian had during… what happened… but his cool gaze is oddly affected now.

“Good boy,” Moriarty reiterates, squeezing Nathaniel's thigh before pushing the slightly smaller man aside and standing. “Oh yes, and before I forget: my sister sends her regards for what you did in New York.”

Nate swallows. How else would a thief like him end up in this part of London in such company?

M fixes his clothing and blows a kiss in the mirror as he pulls his suit jacket back on. The bewildered American watches, then slowly pulls himself up off of the Chesterfield.

“Thanks for your time, Nate,” Mr Moriarty smirks, walking out of the door abruptly. He says it just like that… casual… like he doesn't now own Nathaniel completely. “Perhaps next time I'll let my boys take turns with you.”

The American stands there dumbly. He can already feel heat pooling beneath his belly again and this is starting to be a humiliating _problem_. His faculties cannot divert enough bloodflow to form a coherent nor timely reply.

Sebastian leaves with his employer, never far from the short criminal's side, but Severin lingers. Nathaniel swallows and fixes his own clothing, but he still feels naked as the huge blond stares.

' _Let my boys take turns with you_.'

The tension hangs in the air and Nathaniel's stomach twists as he fumbles with the zipper of his crumpled jacket. Just one Moran would easily have the strength to snap him in two. He feels sure the bigger man is going to speak.

But the remaining Moran says nothing, despite that eerily intense stare.

Nathaniel takes a hesitant step towards the doorway and Severin merely leans back, watching with a challenging tilt of his square chin. Nathaniel keeps walking, but the blond says nothing nothing nothing, and Nathaniel's heart is hammering wildly again by the time he makes it to the door.

The American reflectively glances at the mirror on the way out.

Severin stands. He smirks as the smaller man instantly freezes, but merely turns and douses the dying fire before he leaves through another doorway.

Nathaniel dives for the stairs and despite the lack of pursuit he takes them two at a time; he feels desperate to be outside, to be gone, to be safe.

His legs are shaking by the time Nathaniel bursts out into the cold night air. The chill is brisk, immediately burning his flushed cheeks, and Nathaniel splutters as he chokes in air like he's been holding his breath for a very long time. The contrast of the frozen air against his insides stings his throat and chest, but Nathaniel doesn't care.

Alive. He's alive he's alive he's alive.

The brunet notices movement overhead. A security camera moves to observe him.

He remembers what M said about watching him before.

Fucked. The American is well and truly fucked, and the pleasant pain of his arse has nothing to do with it. Nathaniel tells himself to get moving, but he cannot help but fixate on his reflection in every shop window he passes.


End file.
